GoodBye
by Shuggie
Summary: Eric Cartman has had enough. He says his final goodbyes to those close to him. Rating for a bit of language, just to be safe.
1. Mother

**OK, so this is my first South Park fic. All the chapters are short and not meant to be long at all. Until the epilogue, every chapter is a letter from Cartman to someone close to him. So, here it goes.**

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Dear Mom,

I know I'm only sixteen. I know that grown-ups think that if you're only sixteen you don't know enough about the world. Sixteen-year-olds don't understand complex emotions like love and hate and sorrow. I think everyone who says that is a fucking moron. We might be young, but we feel too. We might not have experienced as much as someone older, but we have experienced. I grew up in South fucking Park. Of course I've experienced things. I've seen war, greed, murder, and horrific deaths of innocents. I've seen them all. And they've all made me feel.

Everyone has always thought horribly of me. For a while, back when I was really young, pre-school times, I can remember people giving me pitiful looks when they saw me or were told that I was the Cartman boy. I didn't understand then, but now I know that those pitying looks were because of you. They felt sorry for me because I was the son of the town slut. But then they heard or saw things that I did. I was labeled as the town's own asshole. I was the little brat, the egotistical, manic, racist sociopath, as the Jew so eloquently puts it. They all hate me. They hate when I'm right about things that their pathetic minds can't admit to. Because they hated me, I hated them more. I hated them all so much. I never hid that from anyone. I've never seen the point in dancing around people like that. Most of the people in this town have nothing to do with me. I never needed to be deceptive towards them. Situations never called for that.

I don't know why I've always felt the need, the burning, aching desire, to be such a bastard to everyone. I've even always been a bastard to you. But that's what I am, right? A bastard child. Until third grade I had thought that I never knew my father. Turns out I never knew my mother. But I always still called you mom. You always acted the part of the loving mother. You always had a tray of cookies in the oven. You always looked ready for polite company to arrive. If I had to pin a stereotype on you, it would be the typical housewife of the 1950s. Of course those mothers didn't have your type of night job.

I knew about that. The other kids knew about it too. That was one of their favorite insults to me, that my mom was on the cover of Crack Whore Magazine. It pissed me off every time they said it. I don't know if it was so much them saying something against you as saying something insulting to me. But even though you were like that, you still loved me. You saw how excited I was about toothfairy money to give me enough to make us go bankrupt for a while. You always had treats ready to cheer me up if something at school had pissed me off. When I was grounded, it was only in name. I could still watch TV, play outside, go with Butters to California, or get presents. None of the other kids got that privilege. It was pretty sweet. I never appreciated it though. I'm selfish. I always wanted more. I always thought what I had wasn't good enough. In a way it wasn't. None of the other kids had a mother who would rather have sex with a random stranger that show a moment of concern over her Traper Keeper possessed son.

There's been a lot of late nights that I've sat up thinking about that. How you'd rather get your ass pounded than take care of me. What did you do when you learned about my conception? I'm sure it pissed you off. You'd have to change your whoring ways to take care of me. Why didn't you leave me to my actual mother? I used to wonder if she would have treated me better. From an outsider's point of view, I had it good. My mother let me do pretty much what I wanted. It always served my purpose well. I could convince you to do anything I wanted, even if you found it morally wrong. I proved that by getting you to sign me up for the Special Olympics in under five minutes. But corny and gay as this might sound, you never really gave me what I needed. You were never the sort of mother that I needed to make me a good person. The other guys had mothers that taught them morals and values and sensibility. You let me run wild.

Even though you did all that, you are still my mom, and I do love you. I promise I love you, Mom. I know what I've done is selfish, but hey, you won't have to spend money on me anymore. You won't have to work your schedule around me. You'll be free to do as you please. You won't have to worry about your child's feelings or reputation, not like you ever gave a damn before.

You'll be the one to find me. You'll probably find all the other letters too. Send them off for me. When you find me, you'll try to wake me up, but I'll never open my eyes again. That's the way I want it. I can't stand this place—this life—anymore. I could sound like myself and say that I can't take all the fags, Jews, and hippies anymore, but it's more than that. Every morning when I wake up, I want to cry because I have to go out and face the world that I hate. It's a chore—a real fucking chore—to pull myself out of bed. I look at everyone around me and I want to kill them. Kill them or myself. I've settled for the latter.

I'm not one of those faggy goth kids. I didn't do this because I couldn't stand the conformists. I didn't loose my girlfriend and couldn't take the heartbreak. I didn't have a drug addiction that only death could overcome. I just honestly can't handle this any more. It isn't healthy the way I think. I look at my so-called friends and I hate them. I hate their happiness. I hate that they are loved. I hate that they can love. They can love, but I can't. There is no one that I can look at and not hate. Everyone I see causes the blood in my veins to boil. I get called a Nazi for it, the reincarnation of Hitler. Who knows, maybe Hitler had the right idea.

Why is it that I can't love and be loved? I know that I can't be loved because I can't love. So maybe the proper question is why can't I love? What is it that keeps me from doing this when every other homo out there can do it? I don't know the answer. Now I never will. I'm ending it all in a few minutes. I'm ending my pathetic existence on this shit-hole planet. Religion tells me I'll go to Heaven for believing the Truth. Catholicism tells me I'll go to Purgatory for taking my own life. Everyone else says I'll go to Hell for all of the horrible things I've done. Kenny said Hell's not too bad. There won't be any fucking Mormons there. I don't know where I'll end up. All I know is that it'll be better than this. Better than this place, these people, this life. I said before that grown-ups would think I don't understand sorrow. To me, the greatest sorrow is my existence. It is when you pray for death every night before going to bed. Sorrow is not getting that death you've begged God for. Sorrow is not getting what you deserve. I'm the town's asshole. I deserved death. God won't give it to me. I have to give it to myself.

It might not make sense to you. It might not make sense to anyone else. But this is what it's come down to. They've always been right when they've said love is the key to a happy life. I have no love. I have no happiness. I have no life. I have nothing to keep me going, nothing to keep me sane, nothing to bring me back. I can't ask you to understand, Mom. No one ever has understood me. I used to say that it was because I was just more mature or more intelligent than everyone else. I've even said that God had picked me out to be better. That wasn't all true. God had picked me out, but He didn't do it because He liked me. He did it because He needed a laugh. He did it because not everyone can be happy. There has to be people who suffer so that the high and mighty can see how good they have it. There has to be people that snotty bitches can point at and tell their children not to become scum.

It's late. I'm tired. My eyes are bloodshot. I cried before I wrote this letter. I am sorry I'm leaving you, Mom. I know that you'll cry. You shouldn't, but I know you will. Don't cry for long, Mom. Just get up and go on. Continue with your life like I never was. You'll be happier that way.

I've put this off for too long now. There'll be an empty container off pills in the bathroom cabinet. You'll find them later, I'm sure. They're what I'm using. I'll take them all and then go to bed. I'll go to sleep and never wake up again. Then everyone can be happy. I'll have finally done something good for someone else.

I love you, Mom.

Eric

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Wow. There's the first letter. Please review. constructive critisism is welcome!**


	2. Rival

**Wahoo! Chapter dos! **

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Stan,

Out of you and Kyle, you'll care the most that I'm gone. It won't be because you miss me. It'll just be because you're a God-damned pussy. You've always been the biggest pussy out of us, the sensitive one. You couldn't kill bunnies, you couldn't stand to see baby cows eaten, and you couldn't take it when the hippie left you. It's a trait of yours that always pissed me off. It ruined a good number of my plans, it got me sent to that crap-hole they like to call Iraq, and, well, it just plain pissed me off. Or that's what I showed.

Yeah, on a level, your sensitivity did piss me off, but on another level it fascinated me. I didn't understand it. I still don't. I didn't get how you, having a dick, could allow yourself to behave like that. I passed it off as you were just a little gay wad for a while. But you never cared when anyone—mainly me—made fun of you for it. You continued to throw up at everything and grow your little vaginas about everything. How did you do that? You cared about things and showed it. I've never shown that I've cared about something. And yes, you bastard, I have cared about things. I just let them go because I didn't want to be called a pussy. Maybe I was the one who was the real pussy there. You didn't care that you cared. Somehow, you caring so much makes everyone worship the ground you walk on even more. Honestly, it's a bit disgusting. I can't honestly pin point what's so great about you. But that's because I'm the asshole, right?

I'm the one you all hated. I've never understood why you still let me hang around you. Yeah, there was that one time when you guys all ignored me, and I thought I was dead. But then you came and told me you'd stop ignoring me because I had "changed." It was apparent the next day that I hadn't changed, but you still hung around me. What the fuck, man?

I guess it was cool of you guys. Other than the three of you, the other guys never hung around me. Sure, every once and a while all the boys would group together, like when we thought the girls had a fortune telling device or when we sent that whale to the moon. But I still never got it. Why did you do that? You and Kyle were such fags together, you didn't need anyone else. Kenny's sort of always been able to filter between groups. Craig lets him in with his group sometimes. And Kenny's better friends with Butters than the rest of us. The three of you have always been real friends with each other. I've just been there. And honestly, I'm jealous.

I'm jealous that I never had a friend like you had in Kyle. You and Kyle are inseparable. People are waiting for the fucking wedding invitations. But I'm seriously, you have it good, man. You have a best friend. Your parents are a little weird sometimes, especially your dad, but they love you. They really love you. And you love them. You probably appreciate that more than anyone else in this redneck piece of shit town. I know you'd never want to take my advice, but stick with that. Stay friends with Kyle. Be good to Wendy. Keep your parents close. Hell, even your sister can be cool sometimes. Don't let that go. People love you and you can love them. Don't stop doing that. If you stop, that's when your life ends.

This isn't a letter to confess that I really did love you like friends should. I'm not writing to you to tell you that I really was a nice person on the inside and just didn't know how to express it. I wasn't a nice person. I'm not going to pretend to be something I'm not. I just wanted to tell you a few things, things that I wouldn't say to your face. I've given you some advice here, take it or leave it. I really don't fucking care. I'll be gone, so it won't matter anyway.

I don't know what you're planning to do with your life. I don't care about that either. You're the star of the school because of that damn quarterback position. You're just the typical All-American sports star, huh? Whatever. If it gets you somewhere, good for it. Just make something of yourself and take care of people. Be a better person than me, Stan. Not that you aren't already. Because I'm the asshole.

I still have to say good-bye to the Jew and Kenny. I won't be seeing you around. And I'm sure you won't really miss me. If you end up where I end up, I'll see you there one day. Until then, I still hate you.

Cartman

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Ummm...REVIEW DANG IT!**


	3. Enemy

**Hmmm...part tres! **

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Jew,

I hate you. I really hate you. I hate you with every single cell in my body. I hate looking at you. I hate your damned red curls. I hate your eyes. I hate your hat. I hate your reading glasses. I hate your Jewish blood. I hate your Jewish mother. I hate your Canadian brother. I hate that your dad always wears that little beanie.

I hate you, but I still called you my friend.

I'll never understand why. You hated me just as much as I hated you. I called you Jew. You called me fat. I said you had no soul. You said I was Hitler's reincarnation. I made fun of your mother, and you made fun of mine. We seemed to exist to piss each other off. Personally, I relished in it. I think it was one of the only things that made me happy, seeing your face turn the color of your daywalker hair and you shaking with rage. It made me laugh. But, Kyle, not everyone who laughs on the outside is laughing on the inside.

My biggest rip on you was that you were Jewish. I always said the worst things about your faith and your people. I laughed at the Holocaust. I dressed up like Hitler for Halloween. I twisted the message of Mel Gibson's _The Passion_. I convinced a bunch of people to march through the streets screaming for the extermination of the Jews in German. It was all to piss you off.

Before I met you I didn't hate Jews. I really didn't know what they were, of course. You moved here when we were only three. But even at three it is possible to hate a certain breed of people. I hated hippies then. But I didn't hate Jews. I have something to confess. I still don't hate Jews. I just hate you. It was you that made me start on my Jew bashing spree. I don't know if I would have acted that way if it hadn't been for you. If I had met some other Jew, would I have been tolerant of them? I can just hear your response. No, Cartman would never be tolerant of Jews. He isn't tolerant of anyone. He makes fun of Token for being black. He makes fun of Kenny for being poor, Pip for being British, even that French Mole kid from the war. Cartman doesn't like people who are different. That's not necessarily true, Kyle. I liked Chef. Chef is black. Terrance and Phillip are Canadians, and I've always thought they were funny. I got myself electrocuted saving them once for fuck's sake. No, I just said things that other people were thinking. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is a racist. It's just that not everyone admits to it.

So what was it about you that made me hate you so much? I really don't know. I just know that I wasn't bothered by a lot of things until you moved here. Nobody made fun of me for being fat before you. No one called me dumbass or said my mom was a whore. It was you who started it. I don't know why you started on it. Was it really me who said something first and you just retaliated? I can't remember. We were too little.

I hate you, Kyle, but then again I don't. Do you remember a long time ago way back in the fourth grade when you invited Butters to Casa Bonita instead of me? I got mad and jealous. I was jealous. You invited Stan and Kenny. That was a given, especially Stan. But then I should have been the fourth person to go. But you chose Butters. _Butters_. I remember being so pissed. I told you to fuck off. But I told you that a lot, so that wasn't anything new. Before I convinced Butters that a meteor was about to hit the planet, I told you something. I said that we had been through a lot together. It might not have made us friends, but it made us something. I stand by that, Kyle. We haven't considered each other true friends since…well, since ever. But we have been through a lot together. I don't know what that makes us. But whatever it is, it is something.

I told Stan that I was jealous of the friendship he has with you. It's the truth. You guys are lucky. I think it's one of my biggest regrets not having something like that, definitely in the top two. I could say it's not fair, but I know that you'd just point out that I never tried. I was an asshole and never put up the effort that having such a relationship requires. That's true. I never did try, and it is my fault.

I know that you'll be the happiest to hear the news that I'm dead. You hate me. You've always wanted me gone. You'll be glad. If you go to my funeral, you'll laugh. You might do a little jig on my grave. You'll sing your Jewish praises to God that I'm gone and will never bother you with my anti-Semitic bullshit again. You won't miss me. Go ahead. I won't care. I won't miss you either.

That's a lie. I will miss you. I don't know why, but I will. I will as I sit in my own little corner of Hell. That's where you'll hope I am.

I'll never get the chance to tell you again, so here it is. I hate you, Kyle. I hate you. Fuck off, Jew.

Later, man.

Cartman

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Gah, this one was short. Review please!**


	4. Friend

Hey Kenny,

You poor piece of shit, Kenny. God damn it. God fucking damn it. I am going to miss you so much, dude. You're my best friend. I think I've only told you that once. Only once in over sixteen years. Why? I had lots of opportunities. I had lots of opportunities to say something, to be a better person to you than I was. I could have walked over to your house and brought your family food. It's not like I was lacking in it. I could have brought you blankets and old clothes. I could have invited you to spend the night more so you could be in a good home for a while. I don't have an exact excuse as to why I didn't. Maybe that's because there is no good excuse.

I think I didn't do it because I had a reputation to keep up. I was Eric Cartman. I didn't give a rat's ass about anyone but myself. Eric Cartman only looked out for number one. Eric Cartman only cared about Eric Cartman. I was selfish. I was an asshole. But that was my part in our group. I played my part well. Don't you think, Kenny?

This sounds gay, but you were the Stan to my Kyle. That probably makes me sound insane, comparing myself to Kyle, but it makes sense. With him and Stan, it's Kyle who's got the short fuse. With me and you, I'm the one with the short fuse. Weird.

I never understood why you always stuck by me, Kenny. I was a dick to you constantly. But you almost always took my side. You stood behind my insults and my plans, no matter how ridiculous and outrageous they were. And I never thanked you for it. I never thanked you for anything you did for me. And I still can't thank you. I can't because there's nothing I can say that will ever make up for the lack of appreciation. I can't make up for that.

You were the only one who called me Eric. Yeah, Butters did sometimes, but that's just because he's a dumbass and never got it. To the world I was Cartman. Hell, my mother saw me as Cartman, but she had to call me Eric. But you, yousaw me as Eric. You're the only one who's ever gotten close to my inner thoughts or true self. Hell, your spirit was in my body for a while in fourth grade. But even though you were there, you still never saw past my final wall. No one's ever seen through that wall. I could never break that one down for anyone.

If any of my so-called friends will be sad that I'm gone, it would be you. But it probably won't bother you for long. It shouldn't. I was such an ass to you. It would be stupid for you to care about me for very long. I wouldn't blame you if you don't care at all. I wouldn't blame you, but the thought that you wouldn't care about me really hurts. It hurts, Kenny. Physically. My chest feels like it's collapsing right now. Fuck. There's fucking tear stains on the damn paper. Fuck. Eric Cartman isn't supposed to cry. Not like this.

I'm going to fucking miss you so much, Kenny. I don't think that I'll be in Heaven, but if I am, I'll watch over you. If I can, I'll protect you. I'll beg God to keep you safe, to help you out, and to make sure you get the fuck out of the ghetto. You need to get out of there, Kenny. You need to make something of yourself and not be a damn alcoholic, lazy fuck like your dad. You're better than he is, Kenny. I'm giving you all of my shit. I talked about it with a lawyer in Denver. I sent the final paperwork in the mail this afternoon. You get everything I own, all my money, all my shit, dude. You don't have to take it, but I hope you will. This is the only charitable thing I've ever done. But I only did it because of you. If you didn't need it, I wouldn't have bothered at all.

I feel like a fucking broken dam right now. I'm surprised that I'm not fucking bawling. Not like it would matter. Mom wouldn't be able to hear it, not over her "business meeting." But you know all about that. You know how I feel about that. Fuck, what am I doing? This letter isn't to lay all of my shit on you. I'm not writing this to confess all my problems. In a few minutes my problems won't matter anymore.

Broken record, but I'm going to miss you, dude. You're my best friend. You're my best fucking friend. Probably my only friend. I don't deserve to be called your friend. I'm a fucking bastard. I'm a selfish fucking bastard. Every time you hear about a suicide, they say how selfish the person was, how selfish they were to leave their friends and family behind. Does it count as selfish when the person is truly unloved? And if that person was suffering so much, isn't it selfish of the so-called friends and family to keep them living? You were the only one who knew that I wasn't always laughing on the inside. But did you ever think I was sad enough to do this?

I feel like of all the people in the world, I own you an explanation as to why I did this. But the truth is that I don't really have a concrete explanation. All I know is that this is it. I can't take it anymore. I can't continue. I dread waking up every morning. I want to spend everyday in the dark of my bedroom wasting away like some fucking emo, gothic pussy bitch. But it's what I want to do. I've done it a few days. I told Mom that I was sick. Of course she didn't question it or make me prove it. She just let me stay home and continued her plans for the day. Those days I would board up my room and just lay there. My thoughts always led me to one place. I wanted out. Not just out of my home or South Park or even my life style. I wanted out of life in general. I wanted to be dead. I wanted to end it. I didn't care how I died as long as my fucking pulse stopped. I prayed for God to send death my way. He never answered me. I had to take it into my own hands. That's what I'm going to do tonight.

I just feel this emptiness. The only think that ever penetrates it is hatred. But that seems normal, right? Eric Cartman hating something. Nothing new. But it feels new to me. All of my hatred is just boiling over. I can't stand anyone anymore. Nothing makes me happy. Pissing off Kyle used to honestly make me happy because I hate him. It does nothing anymore. I only pretend like it does so as not to upset the balance. But I don't give a fuck about that balance anymore. I just want all this to end.

I don't know how it came to this. I don't know why I feel like I can't go on. But it's how I feel now. It's how I'll continue to feel until it's over. They say better late than never. Not for this. This is the end.

I'll miss you. Kenny. I'll miss you so damn much. You're my best friend, and you've meant a lot to me. I'm sorry I never told you to your face.

I love you, man.

Eric

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Please review. It's the right thing to do.**


	5. Love

**Much thanks to those of you who are reviewing. If you aren't...shame. But the shame will be gone if you do review. Please be considerate and do the right thing. Hee hee. **

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Dear Wendy,

I love you. God damn, that's so much easier to say on paper that in person. But it's true. I fucking love you, Wendy Testaburger. I've loved you since you kissed me in third grade. Before that, when I called you a hippie or a whore, I meant it. But after that debate, I couldn't ever mean it again. But you didn't care about me. Like you said after the new flag got unveiled, all your feelings for me were gone as soon as you kissed me. I told you that mine were too, but I know I sounded so unconvincing. I'm usually a good liar. Fuck, I'm a fucking fantastic liar. But I could barely even get that out.

Of course after the debate, you and Stan continued on as though nothing had happened. He never said anything about the kiss. Kyle and Kenny never brought it up. What was odd was that I never did? I think they all expected me to. It would have been very like me to throw it in Stan's face daily that his girlfriend had kissed me. The two of you had never kissed like that. Stan's stomach was too weak to handle it. I never bragged about it. I couldn't do it because it hurt me too much. I liked you, not liked, loved. I loved you, but you loved Stan. Flaunting that you had kissed me wouldn't make you do it again. It wouldn't make you leave Stan and come to me.

It always pissed me off when we were kids that you and Stan dated. You and Stan were almost never around each other. You barely spoke. It was all for appearances. The prettiest girl and the cutest boy. You were supposed to be together. It was what I hated Stan for. I didn't care that he was the star of all the sports teams, that he was popular, or that he was good looking. All I cared about was that he had you and didn't appreciate it. And Stan had the nerve to be upset when you broke up with him.

Speaking of that, I was so excited when Bebe came up and told Stan that you were breaking it off. I didn't show it because Eric Cartman doesn't show feelings like that. After all, Eric Cartman has two modes: eating and pissed off. But then, it got around that you were dating Token. God dammit, I was pissed. When I got home I broke my great-grandmother's vase. That was the only time my mother ever really yelled at me, but I didn't care. You were already dating another guy. Nothing else mattered. I would have loved to have chunked another rock at Token that day.

You and Token didn't last long. I was really glad about that. You didn't date anyone for a long time after that. That made me even happier. But I never said anything to you about how I felt. It wouldn't have made sense. Eric Cartman and Wendy Testaburger? No. Nope. Wrong.

I've never been interested in another girl. You were my one and only. But you hate me just like everyone else. Knowing that you hate me is the worst pain I have ever felt. And I had to listen to Barbara Streisand sing once. You're something, Wendy, to have made me both the happiest and saddest I've ever been. That's a talent. But I can't hate you for it. I can't even be mad at you for it. I can't because I love you too much.

But why do I love you? You're practically the hippie poster child. I hate hippies. You're a child after Mrs. Broflovski's own heart. We all know what I think about Kyle's mom. You're as scholastically obsessed as Kyle. I don't give a crap about school work. So why do I love you? It's not just because you're pretty. Well, actually, you aren't pretty. You're beautiful, gorgeous, goddess-like. I remember one day at mass when the priest told us to picture the most beautiful thing we could and it wouldn't equal the beauty of Heaven. I pictured you. But I know that you're more beautiful than Heaven. I think that most people would describe you as hot. Yeah, you are, but hot sort of goes along with fuckable. You're far more than that, at least to me. You're beautiful. But that's not why I love you.

I don't think it's something as shallow as that we both like to make Quadruple Stuffed Oreos. It's not as serious as we've both had someone killed for revenge. It feels like it's something deeper, something on a soulful level, my love for you.

I've got to be creeping you out with this. It looks out of nowhere, doesn't it? This deep confession of love. But it's not. It's been waiting to burst out for almost ten years. Ten years is a long time, Wendy. It's a long ass time. I'm glad that I'll never have to see the look of repulsion on your face when you learn the truth about how I feel for you. I don't know what I'd do if I had to see it. I think I'd cry in front of everyone. Obviously I'd rather kill myself than do that. I'll be dead. I won't have to see the look you'd give me, and I won't have to hear you scream about how much you hate me.

But even though I know you hate me, I love you. You're the only person I love like this, Wendy. I love my mom, but that's more out of obligation. She's my mom. I don't really like her though. I guess I sort of love Kenny but not really. I guess I just like him. He's my best friend. But you, I like you and I love you. You're the only person in the world I feel like this about. I just wish I knew why.

I wonder what things would have been like if I were different. If I were different, if I were a nicer person, would you have liked me? Would you have ever considered me? Felt something for me other than a few days of sexual tension? I'll never know. I was too absorbed in myself to change. I love you, but I couldn't change myself for you. I honestly don't know how to change myself. I don't know if I would have done it if I did know though. Maybe if you had asked me to change I would have tried. I'd have done anything for you, Wendy. I would have fucking cured cancer.

I still need to write a letter to my mom, so I'm going to stop this now. I know you won't care, but I just needed to let you know. I couldn't go through with it without somehow letting you know. I'm sorry to have bothered you with this. And I'm sorry I always insulted you. I never meant it. You're the only one I never meant it to.

I love you so much.

Eric Cartman

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Remember to review. This is the last of the letters. The next chapter will be the epilogue.**


	6. Aftermath and Funeral

**Ok, thanks you to everyone who reviewed this little work. Yeah, another very short bit. I was told that I should do Butters or Tweek or Chef. I guess I could have, but those would have been more like good-bye sticky notes than letters. Chef's could have been longer, but I didn't really wanna do him. Anyways, this is the end: the funeral! ah. Poor Cartman...**

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Eric Cartman's body was discovered by his mother on the Friday morning of January 26th. He hadn't come downstairs for breakfast, and she had merely concluded that he'd slept through his alarm. That wasn't unusual. Lianne had gone into his room and tried to shake her son awake. He had not moved. In hysterics, she had called an ambulance. The medical team that had arrived immediately proclaimed Eric dead. One of the team members had discovered a small stack of labeled envelops on the boy's desk. 

As Eric's body was driven up to the morgue, Lianne read the letter addressed to her. She wandered aimlessly into the bathroom. She reached up with one hand to open the medicine cabinet; the other hand was clenched around her son's letter. There it was. There would be no need for an autopsy. Eric had killed himself by overdosing on medication.

Like many things in South Park, the morgue was family owned and operated. The daughter of the owner came over to the Cartman residence later that afternoon. Lianne had not answered any calls, and they had been concerned. Lianne had not harmed herself, but she had merely been sitting on the couch staring off into space, tears leaking down her cheeks and a worn, old stuffed-frog pressed to her chest.

It was sometime in the very early hours of the morning that Lianne finally moved from the couch. Her baby had asked her to deliver the other letters. She had failed her son before. She needed to do this for him. The clock in her living room rang three-thirty as the door shut behind her. Lianne trudged through the deep snow clad only in her nightgown and robe, old slippers her feet's only defense from the cold. She slipped the right letters in each mailbox. She knew where all his friends lived. South Park was a small town. They all knew each other well.

She delivered the letters and went back home. Lianne Cartman didn't move again until Monday afternoon.

Everyone who received a letter from Eric had reacted differently. Kenny McCormick had locked himself away in his room all weekend. For a straight day, he had stared at one of his walls. He had just sat on his bed and stared. Yes, floods of tears had leaked out from his eyes, but he made no sounds. He didn't speak to anyone, not his mother, not his father, not his remaining friends. He spoke only once. His blue eyes had landed on the small red pocket knife on his table. Eric had gotten it for him for his fifteenth birthday. Kenny flipped open the knife and cut an inch long slit in his right palm. "I'll do it, Eric," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll get out of here. I'll make good of what you leave me. I swear it."

Stan Marsh, having only pulled himself out of bed around three on Saturday afternoon, didn't read his letter until about that time. His parents weren't to be home until late that night, but they'd be mad if he didn't bring in the paper and mail. Seeing his name on a small white envelope, he dropped onto the couch to read the contents. It didn't take long for Stan to drop the letter to the floor and bury his face in his hands.

Kyle Broflovski was handed his letter by his mother over lunch. Kyle had immediately recognized Eric's handwriting and despite his initial instinct, opened the letter. He almost ripped the letter in half after the first sentence. Eric told him that he hated Kyle on a daily basis. Kyle didn't need to see it in writing too. But he kept reading, his blood pressure increasing alarmingly as he did. His parents and brother stared in shock as Kyle reached the end of the letter and did a double take. He threw the letter to the table and stood, words spluttering as he tried to form a sentence. Then, Kyle kicked his chair so hard it cracked. He screamed and hollered, kicking and throwing things as he moved about the kitchen. His mother had been ready to begin her own round of screaming but was cut off as her husband showed her the last lines of the letter. The raging teenager then found himself locked safely in the arms of his mother, and he began to sob.

Wendy Testaburger was the last one to read her letter. She had been out shopping with Bebe that day, and her mother presented the letter to her as she walked in the door. Curiously, she opened it and began to read. By the time she had finished, tears were streaming down Wendy's cheeks. She looked up at her mother, chocked back a sob, and tore from the house. Wendy didn't know what brought her to Stan's house. Maybe it was because he was Eric's friend. Maybe it was because Stan was her male confidant. No, they weren't dating nor did they plan to again, but she was comfortable talking to him. Stan opened the door, just as red faced and teary eyed as Wendy. She threw herself at her friend, and they spent what seemed like hours crying together on his couch. Before Kyle came over that evening, Wendy fell asleep, her last thought was of how she wished she had had the courage to tell Eric how she had always felt about him before it was too late.

The news of Eric's death had spread through all of South Park by Sunday night. The funeral was held on Wednesday afternoon. None of the junior class had attended school that day. The town's small church was packed. Not everyone had liked Eric Cartman, but they had all known him. It was impossible not to have. The Cartman family took up the first two rows on the left side of the church. Eric's classmates crowded together in the front on the right side. Kyle and Stan sat on either side of Wendy, and the three clung tightly to each other. Kenny sat on Stan's other side, sobbing loudly into his hands.

Butters was beside Kenny, a hand placed lightly on the other blond's back. A few tears escaped his eyes as he blinked. Clyde was holding tightly onto Bebe's hand. Tweek was leaning heavily on Craig and wiping his eyes every few minutes. Token kept his eyes firmly locked onto the large crucifix above Eric's coffin. The priest said something about Eric being in a better place now. Pip looked up at Damien. Damien would know where Eric really was, from either having or not having seen him in Hell. They could ask Damien, but Pip didn't think anyone really wanted to know. They preferred to pretend something else.

Lianne screamed and raved when they tried to lower the coffin into the ground. Wendy began to mutter wildly from her secure spot in Stan and Kyle's arms. Kenny dropped to the ground and curled into a tight ball.

Not everyone in South Park liked Eric Cartman, but everyone saw the effects of his death. On that Wednesday afternoon, there was not a dry eye in the entire town.

**

* * *

Sniff...I love Cartman. Why am I always so mean to the ones I love?**


End file.
